


our tales are the building blocks of home

by maguna_stxrk



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Superfamily, Superfamily (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:55:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23822677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maguna_stxrk/pseuds/maguna_stxrk
Summary: “And it just made me think,” Peter says, breaking eye contact as he turns to lie on his side, cheek mashed against one of the couch cushions, one of his hands reaching down to the carpeted floor to trace random swirls with his fingers as his eyes follow the movement intently, “do you ever regret it?”“Regret what?”Peter shrugs, or moves in a way that is akin to a shrug in the position he is currently in. He is still not looking at Steve. When he speaks, his voice is small.“Coming to this century. Meeting Dad. Meeting us,” Peter mumbles, and when he says “us” Steve knows he means not only himself and Tony, but also Harley and Morgan.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 342





	our tales are the building blocks of home

“Hey, Pop.”

Steve looks up from the book he is reading, thumb slipped between the pages.

“Yeah?”

Peter is lying across the long couch situated beside the armchair Steve is sitting in, tossing a Rubik’s cube up and down. It’s a lazy Sunday. Tony is still away on a business trip to Japan and Steve hates the thought of lingering in the too-wide bed without his husband, so he decides to make his way into the living room and make a dent in his reading list for the year. So far, he’s in the middle of his thirty-fifth book out of a hundred. Peter joined him in the living room an hour into his reading session, remnants of sleep in his heavy eyelids, sporting an impressive bed hair, and still dressed in his pajamas.

“Do you know that we’re getting into, like, the history of you in history class?”

“Pardon?”

“Yeah, we’re studying about, uh,” Peter says distractedly as he catches the cube as it falls down, “the history of Captain America, and stuff?”

“Really?” Steve smiles, intrigued.

“Yeah. And I have to say— Seeing pictures of you in my history textbook or pictures of Dad in my science textbooks? Weird. Still super weird. Probably will never stop being weird. Pictures of Uncle Bruce, too, for that matter. And Aunt Nat. And so many others.”

Steve chuckles. “Weirder than the detention video?”

Peter groans. “Oh, no. Of course not. That will always be the weirdest. They don’t really take into account the fact that having Captain America preach at you about following the rules isn’t really that effective when you’ve seen him cheat countless of times at Monopoly.”

“It’s not _really_ cheating. There are no rules against hiding a secret stash of money before bringing it out when it truly counts to subvert your opponent’s expectations. It’s called being a good strategist,” Steve attempts to defend himself, even as his lips curl up into a helpless smile when he thinks of Monopoly nights with his family, always super loud, messy, and chaotic. Steve wouldn’t change it for the world.

“Ha. I beg to differ. _Dad_ would certainly beg to differ.”

Steve leans back in his seat, raises his hands, palms out. “I rest my case.”

“Anyway… It got me thinking, I guess.” The tone of Peter’s voice morphs into something more serious. Contemplative.

“About?”

“About… It’s just—” Peter takes a deep breath, catching the cube for one last time before holding it against his chest. “You went through so much to get here today. It must have been terrifying. I can’t imagine what it would be like to wake up in an entirely new world. New technology, new way of life, new everything. All the places I usually frequent are gone or have changed in some way. All the people I know and love are dead. You must have felt really alone.” Peter looks at him, his gaze heavy and wistful.

Steve smiles ruefully to himself, remembering those first few months after waking up, a time when everything was so new and foreign and terrifying to him. Misery had settled deep within his chest, refusing to budge and sucking the life out of him like a parasite. He couldn’t stop feeling like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. Some days, he wished for death, or for him to go to sleep and magically wake up back in the forties where he belonged.

“I did,” Steve concedes, holding his son’s gaze.

“And it just made me think,” Peter says, breaking eye contact as he turns to lie on his side, cheek mashed against one of the couch cushions, one of his hands reaching down to the carpeted floor to trace random swirls with his fingers as his eyes follow the movement intently, “do you ever regret it?”

“Regret what?”

Peter shrugs, or moves in a way that is akin to a shrug in the position he is currently in. He is still not looking at Steve. When he speaks, his voice is small.

“Coming to this century. Meeting Dad. Meeting us,” Peter mumbles, and when he says “us” Steve knows he means not only himself and Tony, but also Harley and Morgan.

Steve’s heart twinges painfully as he gazes at his middle child, uncertainty present in every corner of his body, eyes still fixed on the carpet below. Steve knows him well enough to know that this question is something that must have been bothering him for quite some time, that the casual way in which Peter has approached him with the subject is a façade, that Steve needs to tread carefully here because whatever answer Steve gives him right in this moment is going to stay with him for a long, long time.

Steve takes a deep breath before moving to the couch Peter is lying on, lifting up Peter’s long legs and sitting down at the opposite end of where Peter’s head is resting, his son’s feet in his lap.

“Peter Stark-Rogers,” Steve calls gently, “look at me.”

Peter does so obediently and Steve thinks he sees something akin to fear flit lightning quick in Peter’s eyes.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Steve begins, slow and steady, making sure to look Peter in the eye. “There were times, those first few months after I woke up, when I felt like there wasn’t anything I wanted more in the world than to go back to sleep and wake up in the forties again.”

Something shifts in Peter and there is a shuttered look in his eyes.

Steve squeezes one of Peter’s ankles reassuringly.

“But,” Steve continues, maintaining Peter’s gaze, “when I look at you, at Harley, at Morgan, at Dad, at this little family I have right now?”

Steve allows himself a moment, glancing at the row of framed photographs on a nearby bookshelf. A photo of eleven-year-old Harley at his soccer match. A photo of Morgan, dressed in a purple tutu at her ballet recital. Another one of Peter and his best friend Ned, proudly presenting their project at a science fair. Another older one of Peter, Harley, and Morgan all crowded around a science experiment Tony was showing them in his workshop. A photo of Steve and Tony doing the first dance on their wedding day, the two of them utterly lost in each other, paying no mind to the onlookers surrounding the dance floor. Finally, at the end of the row, fitted in the biggest frame: a family photo of them taken on Steve’s birthday just last year. Steve’s eyes linger on that last photo in particular, taking in the details.

Steve was sitting on the very couch he is sitting on right now, Morgan in his arms, planting a kiss on his cheek. Seated on his right was Harley, hugging his arm with a bright expression on his face, mid-laugh. Peter was sitting down on the floor in front of them, back leaning against the small expanse of the couch between Steve’s legs, grinning up at the camera. Tony was standing behind the couch, hands pulling at Steve’s hair jokingly, a crazy expression on his face.

Steve looks at his own figure that was immortalized in the picture. Seated in the middle of his crazy bunch, he had tears of laughter welling up in his eyes, smiling so wide and looking like he was about to split his whole face in half. The winning detail of the photo is, of course, that each and every one of their happy faces was marred by bits of red, white, and blue icing here and there.

Steve meets Peter’s gaze again and with every bit of sincerity he can muster, he tells Peter what he knows is true:

“There is no part of me, right now, that wishes for things to be different from the way they are. I wouldn’t trade this for anything. Ever.”

Peter’s eyes are searching his own for the truth. Steve lets him, because there is nothing to hide.

Steve smiles, caressing Peter’s ankle with his thumb. “If I could travel back in time to before the serum, knowing what I know now, what I would have to go through, the people I would have to lose… I would still do all the things I did. Because I wouldn’t be able to give this up. You. Harley. Morgan. Your dad. Our family.”

Steve takes a deep breath and leans back in his seat, looking up at the ceiling wistfully. “Yes, I do miss the forties sometimes. I certainly miss my friends. I still think about them a lot. Almost every single day,” he confesses, Peggy’s brilliant smile clear as day in his mind’s eye. 

“But this?” Steve punctuates his question with a pat on Peter’s shins. “I can’t imagine my life without all of you. I don’t even want to imagine a world without all of you. You guys—”

Steve pauses, his heart clenching with longing as he thinks of Tony resting in a hotel room somewhere in Tokyo after a day of meetings. He thinks of Harley with burgeoning pride in his chest, his eldest son who is away at college, the brightest freshman at M.I.T. He thinks of Morgan, the little rascal still asleep in bed in her room upstairs, a fierce need to protect her washing over him.

He thinks of Peter, his second child, who is currently looking up at him and hanging on his every word. Peter is a junior in high school now. His mind is brilliant as ever, his brown eyes always wide and curious. He reminds Steve a lot of Tony. He has a quiet and pensive side to him that shows up in rare quiet moments like this, showing that his tender heart feels things so much more deeply than he lets on. His middle child, slowly growing into adulthood faster than Steve would have liked. Affection surges through his veins.

“You guys make me so unbelievably happy. Happier than I’ve ever been. Happier than I thought I ever had the right to be.”

Peter swallows, sitting up on the couch. Steve doesn’t comment on the way Peter’s eyes glitter with something that looks suspiciously like tears.

Steve opens his arms wordlessly and Peter falls into his embrace, his thin arms looping around Steve’s shoulders.

“I love you, Peter Pan,” Steve whispers, turning his head to plant a feather-light kiss on his son’s cheek. 

Peter sniffles against Steve’s shoulder and instead of complaining about the childhood nickname Steve and Tony had lovingly bestowed upon him like he usually does, he burrows further into Steve’s arms, whispering a quiet confession, voice low and rough with emotion:

“Love you too, Papa.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on Tumblr [@maguna-stxrk](https://maguna-stxrk.tumblr.com/) and let's talk all things stevetony! :)


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